Recently I was diagnosed Bipolar, just like my mom (also a writer.) I feel like writing should come natural to me at this point. I suppose to a degree it does, but it’s always getting started that bothers me. I keep coming back to Bukowski who said if its not burning and yearning and exploding out, then don’t write it. But I need to write everyday, I know. I find my lyrics bland and self absorbent. narcissistic and trite. just….not any fucking good. I’ve lost touch. But im thinking of getting back on that horse, (this is proof) and just let the words start flowing again. it doesn’t help that i have SO MUCH stress on me now.
Anyone consider themselves a criminal? I mean we’ve all broken the law. Whether you were speeding or you just had to have that $200 dress, (thats for you high school girls.) welp! I’m a criminal. and the worst part is, I kind of like it. Sure music and writing and movies keep me entertained, Vacations never happen, so occasionally im a bad boy. Its actually amazing i dont have a record. its all been dismissed. HA! well im paying for some charges now that could land me in the slammer, but i think it will all play out well.
anyway keep an eye out for new song videos and prose and poetry coming at ya! I think I’ll be writing again very soon.
Newest Song that I did in the studio with some vid on it. Hope you guys enjoy!
This is a song I wrote with a friend way back in the day, brings a lot of memories. I hope you enjoy it!
no choice but to walk in circles
on synthetic stain-resistant earth.
to keep him at bay.
nevertheless, chattering fingertips push softly
just enough fervor to excorcise these…
Phantoms, i suppose.
fickle as the morning dew,
as unforgiving as God.
by another word they are unjustly called,
like the carpet beneath me,
swimming the chemicals in my brain
a fugazi, the Phantom, pushing for war
a war already lost, a war not worth the spoils.
Movies…Films….Books…Music…art…entertainment…work…family…sleep…the weapons we wield to fight off the terrifying realization that something is empty. And it must be filled. When we turn a chapter, change a reel, or select the next track, we are comforted by knowing that the Nothingness is not coming over the horizon. I myself cannot stand long outros in songs and I believe it is because I fear that Nothing. We don’t watch the credits roll unless there is a secret scene at the end. The repeat function exists. There are almost no words to describe the satisfied sense of hunger that comes with closing the back cover of a novel, left to our thoughts, with nothing left to consume, only to reflect. And that reflection horrifies us, yet some…the strong… cannot look away. Or perhaps we are weak. Rolling in the dregs of nostalgia, reflection is itself the attempt to absorb what have seen, read, heard, etc. We hope to make our weapons stronger, not to trade them for another that seems so. Our weapons are only as strong as we are. yet the hunger stays. Never satisfied. We war with this hunger, we satiate this hunger, we feed it, then war with it again. As the credits to this drama roll, I am still. Frozen with the realization that I am adrift, and even after I can move, even as I type this, I can’t pinpoint that feeling, that moment when I did not seek to satiate my hunger. I was full. And now I am not….even the credits will at some length end. And I am left with that terrifying reflection again.